Same
by RedAugust
Summary: An imagination of what Sherlock and John were like apart and what their reunion might be like after three years. (1 NEW MESSAGE) I missed you -JW Same -SH (SENT)


**A/N: This story is meant to be read with emotion and deep psychological understanding. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed making myself cry writing it. I know what it is to miss someone this much.**

**Tip: The SH: and JW: are who is thinking what follows.**

**...**

_SH: It's a steady tide._

_JW: It's like rain._

_SH: I can't stand the look he wears._

_JW: I can't stop._

_SH: I can't stand the tears. I wish I understood. But I can't say that I wouldn't do the same if I lost him._

_JW: I wish I could have done something. Saved him, caught him, told him everything I wanted._

_SH: I want to tell him._

_JW: I want him to come back._

_SH: I wish I could call out, right now, and end this._

_JW: I wish he didn't let it end this way._

_SH: I want him to know how close I am, that I'm still here. That he's not alone._

_JW: I wish I knew why._

_SH: I want to tell him why. I want him to know everything so his heart can mend._

_JW: I want him back._

_SH: I wonder if he'll ever forgive me._

_JW: I wish more than anything I could take it all back and change something to make this ending better._

_SH: I wish more than anything things could have been different. I can't tell what's better, his tears and safety, or possibly risking his life to let him know he's not alone. But I wouldn't have been there in time. I know what I did was best, but was it right of me to rip him apart like this? I've never seen him so sad._

_JW: I want him back._

_SH: I wonder if he will see me._

_JW: I want to look over my shoulder and see him standing there, with a stupid smile and sorry eyes so I can punch him and hug him and tell him not to go. I'm seeing ghosts._

_SH: I can't. It's too soon. Too hard. Why did it have to be like this? It's a stupid question, but valid to what I feel, whatever it is. I suppose it's guilt. I suppose it's longing. I'm supposed to be dead. The dead don't feel. I have to walk away. He has to walk away. It's better if he does._

_JW: I don't want to be alone. I want him back. I want to go back to the flat and find him sitting there with the morning paper telling me that it was so he could disappear. I'd be okay with that._

_**This isn't real. It can't be**_

_**-JW**_

_SENT_

...

Eyes in the sky, tears on the face, pain in the chest, and a hollow soul retching up a forbidden longing over and over, a pulse, a tide on the shore, a high tide of wishes breaking down the defenses of a practiced apathy. He clutched his phone tight, staring up, fighting the flow of sorrow from his trembling orbs fixated on the sun, blinding, hoping to white wash it all away, but the black letters blackened in the sun as a shadow of what was sent. Fumbling fingers resisted reply, pocketing the device and turning up a hood, pulling down the brim to hide a face to a head ducking between shoulders raised in a slouch. His shoes filled with lead when moving North, water when East, coal when West, feathers when South. He went North. It was a struggle he sorely needed to dampen his senses and wear him thin enough that he may actually find sleep attractive, but of course he wouldn't surrender to the pull. His mind, racing like bullet trains through unmapped tube tunnels that collide and divide into half tracks going nowhere, but today, the tunnels were filled with tar. The black of what he had done to save his friend, he didn't regret, but he felt worse now than ever. He wished for rain. The irony of rain in this sort of mood would tell him that there is always hope, because it's a movie cliché and all bad movies have happy endings. He would give anything for some rain in place of the sticky hot sun making people fan their body odor around with papers they'd dampened in their palms waiting for the bus or a taxi or whomever they intended to bump into on the busy street.

_Perhaps I can bump into him once in a while. Just not let him see my face, but friendly frequent nudges of my presence to keep him on his feet. Would he even sense it, though? God let him feel it and know it, but please, __please_ _don't let him chase me down or see my face._

His feet flew South, toward Baker Street, but home pulled him harder and faster than he'd expected and fear swallowed him. He was making a mistake. If he went too quickly, if he took one step wrong, or if the wind blew just so, he could be revealed, exposed and it would all be for nothing. It was too soon.

_I'm sorry John. I must allow you to suffer a little longer._

The tar in his mind had begun to thin on his flight of feet, but the realization moved what had thinned to thicken in his shoes and glue him to the concrete. His heart continued on without him, as he slowly turned his back and retraced his steps, further from where he yearned to be. Further from a smile, a punch, a quirked brow, a sigh of irritation, a compliment of amazement, a funny squeaky 'what?' and the smell of a friend using his shampoo because there wasn't money enough to buy more of his own without encroaching on the grocery budget. Far from stupid questions and judging looks that asked more stupid questions and still admired the complexity of the world through simple minded eyes and learn-loving glances at things of questioned importance and help to the cases even if what they found was useless and nothing, it was something to him, a demonstration of attempted observation and the desire to be useful. If only he could tell John how useful he really was and how much he appreciated every gesture, every cooked meal, every unwilling errand, every start over a person in the fridge, every rant about shooting the walls, every chastening word about how he should be more careful, more sensitive, or less of himself in ways that said there was no one he'd rather he be than just that.

It was the sun, the beat of the many different scuffed and polished, new and worn shoes along the way, each making their way, through their days all leading to the one thing Sherlock no longer had: home.

He'd tried to make a new one. It was never the same, a bit of a hole in the ground, at least compared to where his heart now slept, exhausted from the retreat back to John's care and concern in 221B Baker St. But there was never a way in possibility that John knew it was there and that hurt more than thinking that John would find his own way without him.

_SH: It's a steady tide of wishes, wants, longing, sorrow, broken heart, crying soul, aching feet, crumbling emotions, and twisted sanity._

_**This isn't real. It can't be**_

_**-SH**_

_DELETED_

...

_I'm just sitting here. What's wrong with me?_

He sat forward in the odd patterned wingback chair, staring at the grey leather modern wide seat across from him, vacant of an estranged man in fetal positions grinning and blathering about a dead body or an impossible vanishing valuable. He got up and walked the room, touched a few special items as though they were holy writ and pricelessly valuable, because they were; always were once he knew Sherlock.

Standing in the empty room, empty only of life besides his own and an unmade bed from who knows how long ago when the man last slept. He stared at it, wishing he could wake him, but he wasn't there and hardly slept anyway so if he were sleeping, he would let him lie. The robe on the back of the door, however, was another story. John slipped out of his own robe, down to just his pajama bottoms, and retrieved the blue satiny striped one from the door to wear instead. He wrapped it tight around him, tied it, sighed, and thought while the tears returned to sting his eyes without wetting his cheeks. He fought himself for a long time, it seemed, but couldn't keep himself from the urge. He pulled the low hem of the collar of the robe up to his nose and breathed it slowly. He felt a little silly for half a moment, even a little gay, but it was wonderful. It was so good to have that so close and for just a minute of blissful, easy breathing, he forgot. Easier than an alcoholic induced stupor of thought, he forgot for just a little while. Through the smell of the fabric on his nose and the familiar texture in his hands, Sherlock was there.

The wet came upon his features, stinging the just dried, already tear wilted skin on his face with the salt of too much surrender. He wished he could stop crying when alone almost as much as he wished Sherlock were still there for real, but he would cry every day the rest of his life just to unsee it all. He would happily weep in public just to see him again, or to even get a text that says 'I can never see you again –SH'. At least then it would be less painful, to know he's alive, but of course, given enough thought, over time, knowing he was alive would get harder over the want to see him again.

He struggled quickly out of the robe and tossed it on the bed, slammed the door and slid down the wall hands cupped over his nose and mouth, eyebrows collided and eyes wanting to shut it all out, but unable for the haunting image of his best friend, bloody and dead on the sidewalk.

_This is my note. It's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note? Goodbye John._

A moan worked its way up from his belly with a hint of stomach acid. He scrambled out of the room as fast as he could, out of the flat, down the stairs, out the front door, and bent in half on the step as the door shut slowly behind him from a slipped attempt at a slam. Some people probably stared; others would pretend not to notice. He gasped and swallowed, hitched and shivered for a few seconds before straightening and throwing a hesitant glace at the people in the street, careful to avoid eye contact, hopeful to feel a little more secure, but feeling just as alone.

"Are you alright, dear?"

"Mrs. Hudson, why do you think he did it?" He didn't even turn to see her face when he spoke, but when she didn't answer, he felt a pang of guilt for asking. He sighed, "I'm sorry."

Her tremoring withered hand rested upon his shoulder and turned him with an easy pull.

The moment he faced her, before he even met her eyes, with the same gentleness she pulled him close and embraced him before guiding him back inside and into her own flat. She sat him down on the sofa and fetched a couple cups of tea before sitting in the matching chair across from him. "I wish I knew." She finally answered. "But I'm sure he had a very good reason. He's a fighter- was. He was a fighter, and wasn't easily swayed as we both know. It had to be important. I find some comfort in that thought and I hope you can too, but I understand what you're feeling."

He gave her a questioning look and she smiled a wise smile only the elderly who have endured significant loss can give. "I loved him too."

Air unknowingly held rushed out, at first constant, and then unsteady and John rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, his other hand barely keeping his tea from splashing out of the cup.

"I want him to come back, but I know he can't. I'm still in denial. I should be past this by now." John rattled, feeling rattled by the truth of her words. "It's been two years. What happened to anger, bargaining, and acceptance? Depression makes sense, I suppose, but why do I keep waiting for him? Why do I keep thinking at any given moment he'll walk through that door with a new case and no explanation to where he's been? I am stuck, Mrs. Hudson. I am stuck and I don't know why. I've tried to move on but I'm tired. I'm so tired and he doesn't feel gone. It doesn't feel like he's dead, I keep feeling like he's so close, hiding in plain sight and I'm just not looking hard enough. I'm never like this, never have been with anyone. I don't understand why I can't-" "I can't move on." He whimpered and fell backwards into the back cushions both hands covering his face and his legs kicking out straight under the coffee table. "God, what is wrong with me?" He threw his hands away from himself allowing them to land harshly on the seat cushion beside him and the arm of the couch.

"That seemed a little angry." Mrs. Hudson offered shyly.

He looked at her blankly for a second before dropping his head onto the back rim of the couch breathing "Finally."

...

_**I'm here. I'm not dead, please understand.**_

_**Forgive me.**_

_**-SH**_

_DELETED_

He stumbled, barely catching himself on the side of a shop from a dizzy spell before realizing that his light head wasn't the problem. A stabbing pain twisted his gut accompanied by a cry of pain from the organs. He knew what hunger felt like this but it hadn't been this bad in years; John had made sure of that.

"Ah yuh alright suh?" A woman spoke close to him.

It was almost a whole second before Sherlock realized she was talking to him. "I'm fine." He replied audibly but ending in a muttered, "I just need some food or something to drink. Sustenance."

"Sorreh?" She leaned closer making him uncomfortable.

"Nothing, I'm fine." He protested and leaned away against the building, looking her in the face for the first time since their exchange. Her hair was fake, but she was too young to be bald naturally and her sunken features screamed for pity. She wore a coat but it was warm and her fingernails had been chewed back. She wore a casual summer dress that cascaded black and grey roses down the white backdrop to just above her knees where it hemmed and her shoes were the vibrant polished red that the flowers should have been, but they weren't gaudy. The wig she wore was auburn and corkscrewed in a lazily thrown together low ponytail. To top it all off, her pale blue eyes weren't convinced by his answer. Before he could protest again, his stomach roared offering up an involuntary airy burp as manifestation to its plea for being empty not just upset. He was actually embarrassed, especially when her nose wrinkled. Oddly, though, she still smiled and almost snickered at him. He turned to walk away briskly, annoyed with the whole situation when she called out,

"Ill buy yuh lunch?"

Any other day he might have refused especially since it meant eating in public.

He chewed on the thought a moment, only making himself hungrier before cramming his eyes shut in denial for what would come next, "Could you make me some?"

"Yuh want me da _make_ yuh lunch?" She seemed surprised.

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble." Sherlock confessed, turning to her, his stomach becoming too much to ignore with every mention of food. "I usually don't prefer to eat in front of others and I haven't had a home cooked meal in quite a while, so" he trailed off, childishly dropping from eye contact. When he looked at her again, she had a pleasant and warm smile that was actually quite inviting and somehow brought a homely attractiveness to her slender, deteriorating features. John would like her. His stomach kicked his spine for that thought and refocused him on food to avoid relocating the pain.

"I would love da, buh I'm afraid I can't offuh my own cookin'. I can take yuh somewhe less public da eat, though if yuh'd like." She fiddled with her fingers, almost blushing over her prominent cheekbones.

He tried to smile, wanted to say 'no thank you', but didn't know what to say. It wasn't ideal, but it was probably better than passing out in an ally somewhere. He heard a voice in his head, one he wished was outside of him, reminding him to say thank you. He was sure she noticed how sad his eyes became, but he smiled a little more, "Thank you."

She took him back to a hospital, home to some of the worst food that somehow miraculously didn't make people sicker. She led him up to her own oncology room where she was obviously living. By what was there as far as hygiene looks were important but she wasn't out to impress anyone, which made sense since she was dying. Her selection of clothing was small and in the open so she was probably far from family or didn't have any left to dote upon her. Or perhaps they were just cutting back on her possessions to help pay for her treatment. There was one photo in the room of a baby girl sleeping in the arms of a smiling young man wearing a wedding ring in a garden. She wasn't wearing a ring. Perhaps he left her, unable to cope with her illness and she, being unable to cope with the betrayal, didn't wear it to avoid causing herself any more pain than the photo provided. He probably took their baby too. There was a pot with flowers instead of a vase and the dirt was dark so it was well cared for, recently watered; a gift, perhaps from the man before he left her which showed that she didn't blame him and coupled with her invitation to feed him, or her caring enough to talk to him at all seeing him stumble, the only conclusion he could draw was surprisingly simple and a bit unorthodox given that it was merely an expression but said everything that needed to be known of her and it was this: She had a big heart.

She ordered the food via telephone for room service so he could sit and relax in the chair in the corner. It hadn't been moved since the floors were last cleaned and there were no old scuffs or scratches noticeable implying that it hadn't been moved since even when the floor was last _waxed_, so she didn't get visitors often, at least not the sort to pull up close and chat.

She sat on the end of the bed, her legs draped over the foot rail and she leaned forward to hug her knees and rest her chin, still looking at him after a brief tidying of the room before ringing for food.

It was uncomfortable for him in the silence of the deciphered room spelling out what was left of her life for however much longer it would go on.

"I know yuh." She said.

His throat clenched and his heart almost began to pound.

"I know the face. I wear it evreh day. Buh yuh not dyin', so wha's-a-matter? Yuh lose someuhn?"

His heart settled, but too deep into the pit of his empty stomach and his eyes lowered, his throat growing a bulge he hadn't expected amid the existing tightness. He sought for words, the uncanny need to answer fumbling around on his tongue. "He lost me." He replied, low and barely perceptible across the room. "And I feel guilty as Hell, but I swear it was for the best." Realizing that she was just going to listen, he added, though hesitantly, "There was no other option."

"He miss yuh?" She presumed that he'd been keeping an eye out from a distance.

He wished more than anything that were true. "I don't know."

She tipped her head to the side, which he barely noticed in his upper peripheral.

"I haven't seen him in three years. Last I did see him, though, he certainly wasn't at ease with everything that happened." The memory flashed to the front of his mind, so far forward it was before his eyes as though he were back there again, hiding behind a tree in the graveyard. "He wept for me. He asked me for a miracle I couldn't provide and I had to walk away without a word." A calm found him then, in the familiar guilt he'd felt for so long. It had become his normal and it was gradually feeling safer and safer to be that way rather than anything else. He decided to change the subject before he got emotional, "Do you really know who I am?"

She smiled softly, apologetically, and shook her head. "No, I'm 'fraid. Should I?"

Quickly he shook his head and changed the subject again, "Who's in the picture?" He expected her to get upset and he could almost hear the scolding for not being more sensitive to her possible feelings, but he was desperate now to get the conversation off of himself.

She surprised him again, "Mah husband. He lef' a while ago, though. Jus' hated seein' meh like this."

"Hm" Was all he said while he thought a moment then inquired loosely, "You're accent. You're Scottish, spent time in America, probably for treatment, but found the best of it here." Perhaps it wasn't as obvious as a question, but she had an answer.

"I am Scottish, buh the best trea'ment we found was in America."

He gave her a confused look.

She exhaled slowly and glanced back at the photo, "The trea'ment there was expensive, in Goe'gah. We wuh there for near eight years. Then one day mah husband comes an tells me we-ah goin' da come here for cheaper trea'ment, buh he has two more weeks ah his job so I came here alone for a while. Two weeks la'ah he calls an tells me he isn't comin'. He starts sayin' goo'bye, that it's easier for him this way, sayin' he loves me buh he can't watch me die like this; it's too much."

Sherlock nodded in understanding but couldn't find sympathy despite the similarities in their stories. Truth be told, her story had nothing to do with his and therefore held no weight for him. John might have cried for her though, not because of how sad it was, but because of the smile she still sincerely wore and offered to anyone seeming to have it worse off than her. She was at peace with her fate whereas Sherlock still struggled a bit facing his past. She was certainly better off than him, and a lot stronger from her illness and loss.

"Do you think he feels guilty?" He asked, not really caring about the answer on her side, but in his mind, hoping that whatever she said could be applied to John. The way she talked, this happened to her a long time ago so the obvious answer was no and that was what he wanted to hear.

"I don't know." She echoed his earlier admittance and he wished he'd never told her anything.

About then, the food arrived and they ate in silence. He could tell that she had figured out that she had struck a chord with him in a negative way and was now keeping to herself, unsure of how to apologize. He stayed silent just to see if she ever would.

When there was no food left to chew, Sherlock stood and offered her his hand. She took it slowly, let him shake it a little and let go. "Thank you for the food." He tossed over his shoulder walking out the door.

"He still pays mah bills, yuh know. All of 'em."

Sherlock was stopped in the doorway. After a beat he, caved and asked, "Why?"

"He still hopes Ill pull through I s'pose. He hopes he'll see me again."

She was talking about her husband, but she was talking to Sherlock, which only translated to him as 'don't give up' which irritated him. "Too bad you'll disappoint him." He said, but not really about her. He left on that and didn't look back, as seemed to be the habit since his death.

...

_**I miss you**_

_**-JW**_

John stared at his phone, at the message he wanted to send. He had found out that Mycroft had been paying Sherlock's phone bill as an effort to ease all of their pain a little more since they could actually send messages to it. It had done a great deal and though he was sure Mycroft was reading everything he wrote, he still sent them except this one. He'd typed it out a thousand or more times, but never sent it. It was too sacred of a thing to send to the brother of the man he missed so.

_**I fall apart without you. I don't know why you did what you did. Everything that made sense doesn't make sense without you. I put aside the math and the logic of it and it's simple. I miss you.**_

_**-JW**_

_DELETED_

John now found himself staring at the ceiling for something to say, clinging to the ridiculous hope that one day he would get a reply, even if it was Mycroft speaking for him. But Mycroft knew him as well as John did, so maybe it would be a bad thing, be too convincing of a reply if he chose to role play for him. He'd better not ever reply, John decided, punching in what he wanted Mycroft to know.

_**I'll never forgive you.**_

_**-JW**_

_SENT_

...

The phone clattered to the ground and he stumbled back, not faint this time, but in horror. His hand over his mouth and struggling to pace his breathing. Tears burned his eyes and he blinked them back as best as he could. Over the past three years John had been sending sentimental texts about how he was doing, feeling, what he was thinking, hoping, dreaming, and what he was theorizing for why he'd jumped off that building. And now, on the third anniversary of his death, he got this.

He sunk down the wall, unable to pull his eyes from the phone that had mockingly landed right-side-up and not broken. He stared at each letter individually to make sure it wasn't code, to decipher what else he might have meant, but the truth was before him. He had waited too long.

What he found himself doing next, he knew was a mistake, but he had to be sure. He couldn't believe it even though he could admit that he didn't blame him. He trembled and almost didn't have the strength to press each key, regret flooding him with each letter.

_**I don't blame you.**_

_**-SH**_

_SENT_

...

"You don't even have the decency to change the signature, Mycroft?" John burned his phone in his mind and punched his reply.

...

_1 NEW MESSAGE_

_**You disgust me.**_

_**-JW**_

Sherlock let the tears fall silently, his breath evening out with the truth. He waited too long. He needed to be punished.

_**You hate me?**_

_**-SH**_

_SENT_

_1_ _NEW MESSAGE_ almost immediately.

_**Yes**_

_**-JW**_

Sherlock found a dark smirk twitching the corner of his mouth.

_**Especially now that you know, I suppose.**_

_**-SH**_

_SENT_

_1 NEW MESSAGE_

_**Know what?**_

_**-JW**_

Sherlock's hollow spot in his chest, twitched, then leapt and sunk all at once. He didn't know how to answer. Part of him wanted to tell him straight that he was alive, but if John thought he was talking to- whoever was paying his phone bill. It made sense now. Mycroft could be the only possible one unless John was doing it, but if he thought he was texting Mycroft this conversation would make more sense.

_1 NEW MESSAGE_

_**KNOW WHAT?**_

_**-JW**_

He stared long and hard at the keys trying to figure out if he should say anything at all more, or if it would make it worse. If he could, he wanted to wait a little longer, but the scare of these messages was making him want to go and tell John in person, to shake his hand and apologize, get punched in the face and turned away before being pulled into the flat to explain.

_1 NEW MESSAGE_

_**Please don't do this to me.**_

_**-JW**_

He ran his thumb over the screen, all the apology he wanted to send in his face as if the phone had been wronged, or perhaps his own hand, rather than the person on the other side, probably dying a little more and a little more inside from the taunt of the unanswered question.

_1 NEW MESSAGE_

_**Don't ever talk to me again**_

_**-JW**_

_**Why?**_

_**-SH**_

_SENT_

Sherlock found a little of himself returning to him.

It took almost five minutes before he got a reply.

_1 NEW MESSAGE_

_**Piss off -Mrs. Hudson**_

_**-JW**_

Though a final tear still slid down his face, he grinned and almost laughed. He didn't need to reply to that one. He just sat there, tipped his head back against the wall and stared at the darkening sky. It was almost dinner time, but he wasn't hungry. He felt a little piece of himself, though, returning and he even began to itch for a case.

...

"I can't believe he did that to me." John paced in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. "What's next, a-"

The doorbell rang.

"Oh you've got to be joking." John went to the door in a huff, bewildered that they even had a guest let alone who it turned out to be. "What are you doing here?" If he weren't so angry, he'd be shocked.

"I've been keeping track of the activity on Sherlock's phone." He said.

"Yes, I'm very aware of that." John snapped before the look on Mycroft's face sobered him and churned his heart a bit, "What is it? What do you want?"

"Were you talking to yourself?" He asked, letting himself in and turning back to face John as he closed the door after him.

"What, the texts?" John was still irritated and felt like he was being toyed with, but his heart still insisted on pounding, pulsing hope into every twitch and hair raise that came from some unexplainable emotion relative to excitement, shock, joy, but more than anything, some kind of rage.

"Don't you have his phone?" Mycroft looked paler by the second.

"No. It wasn't on his person. They gave it to you, I thought. Why are you paying its bills if you thought I had it, what use would I have for it?" John shifted his weight, no longer able to stand still with adrenaline joining the emotions racing through his system.

"I thought it would help you after I saw the first goodbye text and I know it wasn't on his person, they told me you might have it." Mycroft was looking just as anxious for answers.

In a brief moment of clarity, John realized, "You came to me yourself."

"Yes, because it wouldn't be healthy for you to have conversations like that with yourself role playing him. I came to get the phone back, but if you weren't talking to yourself, who was talking to you?"

...

_1 NEW MESSAGE_

_**Sherlock?**_

_**-JW**_

...

John waited for a reply believing if he didn't get one, it was a yes, and if he did get one anything other than a yes, then it was a phony that needed to be hunted down and arrested for theft. Either way, he was in the car on the way to the police station with Mycroft to trace the GPS on the phone.

...

_1 NEW MESSAGE_

_**Please, who is this?**_

_**-JW**_

_OPTIONS-SAVE MESSAGES-SAVED_

_POWER OFF?_

_OK CANCEL_

_POWERING DOWN_

Sherlock took the memory stick out.

_HELLO!_

_MESSAGES-ALL MESSAGES-DELTE ALL_

_OK CANCEL_

_ALL MESSAGES DELETED_

_GALLARY-SELECT ALL_

_DELETE SELECTED PHOTOS?_

_PHOTOS DELETED_

_CONTACTS-SELECT ALL_

_DELETE SELECTED CONTACTS?_

_CONTACTS DELETED_

_SETTINGS-FACTORY RESET-OK_

"Here." Sherlock handed his phone off to the unfamiliar homeless man pretending not to watch him, "Keep it. It's being paid for, though I don't know for how much longer. Sell it if you'd like. The sooner the better or you'll be arrested and questioned."

Behind him, Sherlock heard a metal thud. The homeless man had thrown it in the trash and ran the other way.

...

"It should be right here." John whined looking around on the ground, or for a person, any sign of the phone.

"Check the trash." Inspector Lastrade offered pulling the lid off of a full can and rummaging around. Even Mycroft joined the fun peering into an empty can and calling out before John could plunge his hands into a trash bag beside the can the inspector searched.

"It's here." He picked it up and handled it gingerly. It wasn't locked and finding nothing personal left on it, he handed it to John, "It's been wiped."

John popped open the back and grew teary eyed while almost laughing, "The memory card is gone."

"You two don't honestly think-" The inspector began, having come along to claim the phone for evidence.

John and Mycroft ignored him completely, just staring at the phone, and then each other.

John shook his head, his tears letting back, "It isn't possible."

"Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Mycroft recited reverently

"You honestly believe he might be alive despite watching him die," Lastrade looked at John, "And _personally_ examining the body and confirming by visual what was later confirmed by DNA testing." He looked at Mycroft. "We did all of the checks and balances for possibilities with the body having the knowledge that he was clever enough to invent all of those crimes, solve them, and get away with it every single time."

"You still honestly believe that rubbish?" Mycroft gave the inspector a surprising glare.

"Yes. He was smart, I know. But it was all proved to be true and when he was exposed he killed himself thus sealing that testament with his blood. We checked, we _re_checked, it was him. There's no other way." The inspector insisted even with all of the same doubt the other two had swimming in his eyes.

"Do I need to repeat myself?" Mycroft threatened.

"Repeat what? That you think it's possible?" Lastrade could feel himself getting hopeful now and didn't want to be in case it turned out Sherlock really was gone.

"Probable." John clarified.

"Truth, actually, as it goes. I heard him say it." The inspector corrected shyly for clarity's sake.

Mycroft started to deflate. He was wearing thin of this conversation.

_No._ John thought to himself. "You hear a lot of things and believe them all despite how _insane_ this whole 'Sherlock's a fake' accusation and now you won't believe something as simple as the idea that he might still be alive."

"No one can be that clever."

"He was far more clever than you, at least." John crossed his arms.

"You _watched_ him die, John. You're grasping at straws to self medicate and if this proves to be the way it really is, you're going to devastate yourself. I don't want to be scraping _your_ body off the concrete next." Lastrade pleaded for reason but secretly hoped for proof to contradict the truth.

Without another word, Mycroft slipped back to his car and sped off.

John smirked when he was gone, holding tears back well enough to seem strong enough to say, "That's not a bad idea, actually." And be taken seriously.

"You know we can have you committed." The inspector mirrored the posturing John was doing to seem like he was still in one piece.

"After I look. If I find again that it is true he's gone, you'll be right. I'll fall apart and then you can commit me."

"You can't fall any farther than this, John. Do you hear yourself?" The inspector softened a great deal in that moment and put hands on John's shoulders to get shrugged off and John took a step back slipping his hands down into his pockets, defiant. "Please don't do this, John."

"What else am I supposed to think?" John shrugged again, having no answer for his own question. He didn't want his hope to be defeated, but the inspector was right and he knew Sherlock was gone. He was being childish and foolish and behaving irrationally, desperate to feel whole again. That was it. That was why John was still clinging to denial. He no longer felt whole, he realized. But he'd never realized how much of himself Sherlock had become. If he kept the hope that Sherlock was alive somewhere or even fancied the thought once in a while, he didn't feel so hollow. It was why he thought of him so often, still lived in the same flat, wore his clothes, sent him texts, and still kept up the blog once a month even though the so few remaining followers were only there to tear down any good thing John could find to say about Sherlock without making himself cry.

He didn't realize he was shaking until the inspector touched him again.

"You haven't dealt with this yet, have you?"

Another realization, "No." He whispered, tears seeming too insignificant to portray how he now felt.

"I'll buy you a drink." He offered.

"No." John's voice came back a little to fade again and rasp around the lump his throat had become, "I need to be alone."

"I really don't think that's wise." The inspector called out as John tried to walk away from him.

John stopped at the edge of the sidewalk but before the inspector could hope that he agreed, he took off running. Even a cab wouldn't have gone the distance they had come by their own transport. He wasn't sure where John thought he was going with how far from home they were, but he jumped in his car and followed anyway.

Catching up, he rolled down the passenger window, "John!"

"Leave me alone!" John yelled at him, flashes of everything that ever went wrong in his whole life came flooding back. A pain returned to his leg and his pulse sounded like gunfire. He watched Sherlock fall over and over and over amid it all and his shaking felt like the storm he'd been lost in once as a child that made him uneasy about lightning after it struck a tree a few feet from him then.

It was overcast that day, and Sherlock wishing for rain never worked out, but John begging for it did. It wasn't a downpour, but it was rain and it didn't take long to soak John through as he cut corners to lose Inspector Lastrade to shocking success. Perhaps he gave up.

John found himself climbing a fire escape to the top of a tall building calling Sherlock's name, saying he was sorry. He scrambled onto the roof and ran to the edge. He stood there, swaying, dizzy, crying about as hard as the light rain but feeling more wretched than he'd ever felt in his life. He watched Sherlock fall again, reliving it, he called out to his best friend again, choking in shock and denial. Denial. He felt the hope creeping back up and tossed his head side to side to be rid of it. When it wouldn't go away, he screamed at the sky. When he caught his breath again, the ground looked closer than before, a sense of vertigo.

"JOHN!"

He almost slipped off the roof turning around so fast. He almost couldn't speak, "Sher-"

He didn't know what to say, he was panicking and confused and afraid.

"Sherlock." John whispered, taking an uneasy step backwards, more denial, closer to the edge.

"Please come down from there." Sherlock reached out, just like he did when he was the one on the edge, reaching down.

"You-" John almost didn't process the request, but did find enough balance to pick up a foot to step down. As soon as he was safely off the unprotected edge, Sherlock rushed into him.

Sherlock hugged him, held him tight, "Don't scare me like that."

"Scare _you_ like that." John whimpered almost sounding like he was going to laugh through his threat of tears, "You've got to be joking."

"I'm so sorry." He still just held his trembling friend, unbelieving that this was actually happening.

"You should be." John flung his arms out and around to squeeze the unfathomable life out of the little fake.

Sherlock actually found himself held together by the embrace, almost crushing, but wonderful. "Well I am."

"Good." John suddenly came to his senses and wrenched away throwing a right hook before Sherlock knew it was coming.

Sherlock's expression was unresponsive to the blow, "I deserved that."

"If you ever do something like that again-" John didn't know where he was going with that, but the anger had officially overtaken the denial; fortunately he wasn't grieving anymore.

"I know." Sherlock hung his head a little in shame and looked away.

"Why?" John wanted to know more than how.

"They were going to kill you. I worry they still might, especially if they know I'm alive." Sherlock only half explained.

"They?"

Sherlock remade intense eye contact more than ready to spell out the truth, "The assassins I told you about. They wanted me alive to get globally detrimental information Moriarty gave me, even though it turned out not to exist. He told them I wouldn't give it to them and so they intended to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Inspector Lastrade to make me talk, and only Moriarty could call them off. After he shot himself, if I didn't die, they would have killed you all before I had a chance to warn anyone."

"So you jumped-or, appeared to." John clarified for himself.

"Yes." Sherlock's look softened into something of guilt and regret. "I am so sorry."

John sighed his infamous irritated-at-Sherlock- sigh much to the pleasure of Sherlock's heart finding its way back into his chest. "I'll forgive you on one condition." John said.

"Anything." Sherlock answered with all sincerity.

"If you ever do something like that again, take me with you."

"Well then you might actually die." Sherlock disapproved.

"Well that would be better than living without you." John replied without thinking and caught himself too late. He cleared his throat and looked down at his feet a second to gather enough confidence to meet Sherlock's gaze again. The man looked shocked and flattered and confused. He had the nerve to look confused. "What?"

"Really?" Sherlock's eyes glassed over without him blinking.

John huffed and gave him a crooked smile, "Of course. You're my best friend. I'm not functionable without you. There's no yin without yang and that sort of thing.

Sherlock laughed a little, a tear slipping down his face, "Same."

John's half smile became a whole because that's what Sherlock did to him. Made him whole. "Let's get down from here, I'm getting cold."

Sherlock nodded in agreement, sniffled and pretended there wasn't a tear trail on his face wiping it away not-so-discretely with his fingers.

As they made their way back to the fire escape and before they re-entered the world bellow, one thing needed to be clarified for Sherlock, "Were you really going to jump?"

"No." John said like he was stupid for asking.

"Would you tell me if you were?" Sherlock doubted his answer.

"I just told you you're my other half. Why wouldn't I tell you if I was going to jump or not or lie about it anyway?"

"Just checking." He replied flatly.

It was then John's turn to clear something up, "Are you really a fan of that coat?" He stared at the hip length kaki tan bum coat with holes and a hood of all things.

"I hate it." He admitted.

"Good. Me too." John agreed following him down onto the fire escape and out of sight, to keep Sherlock hidden from the world for a while longer if possible and keep them together at the same time.

...

_SH: It's a steady tide._

_JW: It's like rain._

_SH: It's his step in sync with mine._

_JW: It's life giving._

_SH: His voice nagging me again._

_JW: His insensitive observations and constant showing off. It lights a fire in me that should be called anger, and maybe was in the beginning._

_SH: It lights a fire in me, makes me want him to do it more because it's amusing to see him get worked up and at the same time so dull because you'd think he'd be smarter than that by now, knowing me as well as he should._

_JW: But it's a bright fire. It keeps me going, keeps me warm._

_SH: But it's a bright fire. It's me being egged on to keep him thinking, keep him guessing and watch him get so lost so he'll ask me more questions or chastise me for bad timing._

_JW: It's not so bad, really. Not as bad as I make it sound like I think it is. I know he does it on purpose, but he's just being himself. I wouldn't ask anything else of him, not really._

_SH: It's just him being himself even though deep down, I know he doesn't mind that I do it. I know because he sticks around and sometimes even finds my showing off funny. It makes him smile, which makes me feel a little better than a numb apathy for whoever I just offended._

_JW: He's so cool, even without the collar to pop, just a hood that doesn't suit him, but hides him well enough to keep us safe, and just for that, he rocks it._

_SH: He doesn't get offended so easily anymore. In fact he stopped that a long time ago when I think about it._

"Who stopped what a long time ago?" John looked up at his friend from the bottom of the fire escape.

Sherlock smiled, "You. You stopped getting offended over things I say a long time ago." He came to level in the ally.

"Of course." John said matter-of-factly.

Sherlock looked at him, inquisitive.

"I can't get offended over things that are true."

Sherlock smirked.

John smiled warmly back, "And you've never lied to me."

"You believed me all along." Sherlock decided.

"Since the moment we met and never wavered for a second. And that's the truth."

"I know." Sherlock's smile was growing permanent. "You've never lied to me."

"Just returning the favor." John set a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock chuckled when they stepped out onto the sidewalk.

"What?"

"We've been spotted."

Panic started to set in as John looked for who'd recognized them. It was a cop a few feet away and he looked to be in shock. They watched him process who he was looking at and get mad, "Freeze! Stay right there!"

"Take my hand." Sherlock echoed a previous adventure and John caught the reference.

He took Sherlock's hand to be jerked into the street, across and into the next ally in a dead sprint and they were on the run again. They couldn't help but laugh along the way.

...

_1 NEW MESSAGE_

_**I missed you.**_

_**-JW**_

_**Same**_

_**-SH**_

_SENT_


End file.
